Snapshot of an Autocratic Priest.

There he stood, like a large vulture ready to attack it's prey. Shoulders hunched and head tucked firmly into his neck, eyes scanning the scene before him.  He always demanded absolute conformity, for after all this was his church and he could do what he liked with it.  He had been appointed by the Bishop, therefore all those under him had to do and behave as he instructed.  Ahhhh!  Here come the little girls in their long red dresses with frilly white collars.  He smiled inwardly. It had taken him four long years to reintroduce this particular ritual, together with the ringing of the bells during communion.  It felt so satisfying to have got his own way at last.  How does the saying go again?  "Softly, softly, catch the monkey".

He had had many uphill battles, but after all he was God's anointed, and as such, all that he did by way of changes, he was sure, were smiled on and approved of by God.  His eyes came to rest on a particular parishioner.  One of those hard-headed individuals who refused to do as he had commanded. He knew the showdown had to come soon, and when it did, he also knew who would still be standing at the end of it. After all, he thought to himself, I am the chosen one.  I am the one to take this church in the direction which causes me to feel most comfortable.  I will have no renegades in my congregation.  Most of them have been winkled out, just this last difficult customer, clinging to this place like a limpet clings to a rock. 

His gaze came to rest on the new assistant priest.  What a find!  A pastoral care genius.  All that stuff which he found so boring and irritating, could be smartly pushed her way.  Now he could focus on the things he really enjoyed doing, like gardening and reading obscure and ancient writings.  He loved to show off his intellect, by quoting in his sermons snippets of information gleaned from the lives of long dead saints.  He seldom saw the puzzlement on the faces of the sheep in front of him.  After all, these were his sheep, and as such, surely they must come to know his voice!  "The Force be with you", and the knee-jerk response  "and also with you".   "No, no, no, that was terrible, lets try it again.  THE FORCE BE WITH YOU"  "and also with you" sheepishly bleated the battered and bruised congregation.

The funeral of a young man.

Funerals! Sad occasions at the best of times, but especially so when the person is relatively young, and the promise of better things to come is cut short.  All their earthly efforts lying on the ground in dust and ashes.  One doesn't mind too much when the person is old and daily living has become a real challenge.  It is then that we are much more likely to welcome death with open arms.  Sad? yes.. but not overwhelmingly so.  More a mixture of sadness, tinged with a good dollop of relief.

On this particular day, I attended the funeral of a young Jewish man.  A friend of my son's.  I have attended exactly three Jewish funerals during my lifetime, and I am always struck by the simplicity and reverence of the ceremony.  No flowers. No singing. No sitting in a synagogue.  No eulogies.  Just the bare bones. 

Standing in the foyer, I see many lists adorning the walls with names of people who have "passed on".  Passed on I think is such a funny way of saying died.  It's almost as if the person is sitting in a half-way house between life and death.  I didn't die, I just passed on, and here I am sitting in the "passed on" station, waiting for my train to come in.  I think perhaps it is a way of softening the blow of death.  In my country it is common practice in the black culture to say that the person who died is"late".  Late for what we may ask? Definitely not the funeral!  Different countries and cultures have unique ways of doing things, and we need to be respectful of this.

Back to my Jewish funeral story.  With a clang and a clatter, the lift on the one side of the foyer opened to reveal a pine coffin, draped in a black cloth, and lying on a steel gurney.  It is from here that the journey to the graveside begins.  The Rabbi, a small gentle sounding man starts the proceedings with a prayer for repentance, followed by a prayer of long life for the family.  Eight men are asked to come forward to push the coffin to it's final resting place. This is a somber affair, traversed in almost total silence, and broken only by the jolting and rattling of the gurney, as it rolled down the stony path.  

A small breeze ruffles the leaves in the trees, and a few purple flowers drift gently down and settle quietly on the ground.  Even they seem to know that this is a reverend moment.  We stop once more, and listen to a psalm being read in Hebrew, with a synopsis given in English.  More men come forward for the next leg of the journey.  Two more stops, more prayers, more replacements and then we are there, standing beside the open grave.  The coffin is unceremoniously lowered into the hole, by means of ropes.  Once the final prayers are said, a male member of the family, in this case his half brother is asked to shovel three spadefuls of soil into the grave.  The clods of earth make a hollow sound as they hit the coffin.  His mother and siblings weep quietly, as all the men take turns at filling in the gaping hole. This now is the last resting place of their beloved son and brother.